By John McGregor
I hate cyclists – there, I´ve said it. No, not your regular, fairly harmless geriatrics from various European countries – I mean the rat pack, the would be professional Sunday morning brigade in their Lycra-clothed hordes hurtling along our Spanish Carreteras.
Confession: I never really took to cycling. It all started when I was about five when my grandad came to stay with us. I got a hand-me-down discarded bike from my big sister and´Gramp’ said he would teach me to ride it. Round the back of our block of flats in the lane one morning he held the back of the saddle for ten seconds as I wobbled off, only to then go back inside for a fag and a cuppa.
Round and round the block I went as I didn’t know how to stop – it probably was only about twenty minutes, but it seemed like forever on a saddle that didn’t really fit and my feet barely touching the pedals…
Later when I went up to big school a full-size racing bike with drop handlebars appeared on my birthday although I think Dad got it from a bloke in the pub. Early on going down the main road I went to change up but the derailleur gears swung into the spokes of the back wheel and I went over the handlebars. From then on I took the bus to school or walked the four miles.
Aged sixteen I luckily inherited an old family scooter, a Lambretta and I never looked back – well I did in disdain as I left the bikers pedalling away for their lives – who needs that? Now all those years later I still ride a state-of-the-art Vespa – and that´s what two-wheeled transport is all about, I say.
Those´real´ cyclists themselves can be strange people. In an earlier life some years ago my wife and I went out for a foursome meal with her friend from work and her husband. As the ladies happily chatted, I found him very difficult to talk to: no football, politics, holidays, even the weather was hard going. Running out of steam I asked him what his job was:
´Customer Relations´ he replied. Wow, I thought, I bet you´re good at your job. I tried his leisure activities.
‘Well – I cycle a bit’, he reluctantly conceded, as though he was admitting to meeting a sailor in a public gents loo. Ha! Gotcha, I thought…
‘Don’t tell me – you’re one of those boring ba- buggers that clog up the roads riding in a pack on a Sunday morning, forcing we road-taxed-up motorists to grind our teeth behind you because we can’t overtake?’ I tried to inject a light, half-funny note in my voice, but in truth this was exactly how I feel about this miserable species.
Later during the meal the real story came out – and I couldn’t believe it. Apparently Pedal man was also in business with his son, who ran their cycle shop during the week. At their Sunday cycling group it was decided to all wear a shirt with the shop´s logo on to sponsor them. It started off OK for a few weeks with everyone in their posse wearing the agreed vests until the nephew, a cousin of the son turned up not wearing the shirt, preferring not to he said. A heated discussion ensued and veiled threats were made. But the following week the same thing happened, and this time the young man was set upon by his uncle.
The Customer Relations king had to be dragged off but by that time he had done some physical damage to his much-younger relative and the last thing I heard there was a court case ensuing. You see, cycling can affect your health and wealth…
Back to today. I admit I know very little about modern cycling, and that suits me fine. Don´t get me wrong, I think the bike is a great invention: cheap, healthy, if that’s what you want to do – fine – just don’t get in my way. One at a time, single file, no conferring. But ´they´ don’t do that, do they? They insist in talking to each other, and to do so it´s necessary to ride two and three abreast. Oh, and an important aspect is that you must display complete disinterest in anything behind or around you: especially anything with a motor attached to it.
But now, lately it´s are getting worse here in paradise. Parts of the Spanish highway, for which we motorists pay to use with our taxes and registrations, are being eroded with ´cycle lanes´, or whatever that is in Spanish. Now not content with just a special lane using white lines, we now have lines of concrete pods between the lanes and ´our´ highway, so never the twain can accidentally meet.
But here´s the rub – these Lycra-loaded lads don’t even use them, they ignore them – and stay on our roads. Oh yes, the old guard use the new lanes, the old cyclists who now bomb along on their superior electrically-boosted machines complete with today’s safety helmets, but it´s not them I’m against. It´s the super Sunday superior shifts of twenty, thirty up to one hundred lycra-clad faceless ones grimly gassing and pedalling away, muscles rippling away in unison – they’re the ones that get me.
It´s a ghastly thought to imagine getting near enough by accident to damage one of the species. You´d end up in a quiet ditch somewhere being severely jumped on by loads of superbly fit skinny more fat-on-a-chip ´athletes´ who look as though they’d have to run around in a shower to get wet – and they look scary from the outside.
Hey, maybe I´m just a wimp, I´ve got it all wrong and really there’re a nice bunch of people – maybe. Now, about those electric scooters everyone´s riding, including the kids…
